


Chilibal Drabbles

by DrGaybelGideon



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Cock Rings, Frederick's A Tiny Conflicted Baby With An Awful Lover, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Unethical Proposals Of Marriage, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 19:43:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4449779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrGaybelGideon/pseuds/DrGaybelGideon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An awful, mostly pwp collection of Tumblr drabbles about my guilty unhealthy trash ship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s three months into what Frederick refers to as their ‘relationship’ before the curiosity that drew Hannibal into it is satisfied.  
Frederick’s scar is a single abdominal incision, a slowly healing dusky line splitting the centre of his round stomach. As a wound, it’s equal parts neat and sadistic: Gideon meant to leave his mark, an inescapable reminder of the horrors both given and recieved by both which wouldn’t have quite the same effect if left in the small hollow between the ribs and hip on his back.  
Hannibal can’t help but admire his copycat’s personal flare for cruelty.                 
  
It’s trembling along with the rest of Frederick, whose hands are clenched white knuckled in the waistbands of his suit trousers, panic blatant in every tiny flicker of his searching eyes.  
Hannibal knows fear. He knows the scent, knows the subtle facial twitches of those trying to conceal it, knows all the different types a person can feel. Frederick isn’t afraid of him. He’s standing shirtless, somehow more vulnerable and exposed than the times he’s been pinned into Hannibal’s mattress wearing nothing but a thin vest top to cover his modesty and his own shame at his disfigured stomach. Frederick fears harsh words and rejection, cruelty over his body image, completely unaware the man he’s standing in front of is the reason he has it.  
The irony of the situation is many times more delicious than the salad he prepared downstairs could ever hope to be.  
He lets him suffer for a few more minutes- he imagines a distant smile from a  cold cell at the act- before letting his mind settle on a neutral response.  
“It becomes you, Frederick.” It does. It’s a fitting mark. He’s not going to lie to either of them by calling it an attractive feature, but it’s an interesting one, and a suitable punishment. Frederick doesn’t seem to need it. He’s taken it as a compliment, and lets out an audible noise of relief at the reassurance, relaxing slightly tearily as he sits on the bed next to him, close enough for their knees to touch.   
“Thank you. Thank you.”


	2. Regarding Frederick Chilton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal muses about his current partner over a particularly boring dinner.

One of the small amusements Hannibal will occasionally allow himself over a particularly boring dinner is the chance to escape into the art gallery of his mind palace and try and match the company he’s with to the painter he feels could best capture their image.  
Will Graham is a Picasso, a strange mismatch of contrasts, unappealing colours and shapes combining to form something oddly appealing in its oddity. Not appreciated by its contemporaries, which is probably why his most interesting patient is still rotting in the hellish halls of the BSHCI.  
Next to Abel Gideon. He can remember a similar sense of detatched outrage rising in him when reading about the small town of Defen recreating classical oil paintings for mass production, so that is where he places Gideon: a poor copy hanging on the furthest, least important wall, cheapening the original by simply existing.  
Frederick Chilton doesn’t belong in an art gallery. Frederick Chilton is a painting-by-numbers children’s book that would look far better painted in eye catching red shades. The more he stares coyly, watching the man talk with his mouth full about some uninteresting incident that happened in his workplace or therapy, he’s zoned far enough out not to quite grasp the conversation, the more appealing it seems to lean across the table and soak him in his own crimson, just to give his own ears a rest.  
No. Not yet.  
And it is entertaining, Hannibal admits, to watch him blush under the intensity of his gaze and the fine wine in his system, listen to him turn the conversation to Freud and smile as knowingly as he can manage, to see the ‘subtle’ ways his tongue starts to peform ever more fellatic movements around the tines of the fork resting near his mouth.  
“Does the thought of dessert still appeal?” Frederick replies with a smirk he probably assumes is seductive. He could be ‘seduced’, Hannibal supposes, for the second time this week, build up their bond of trust a little further and enjoy the suprisingly talented ministrations of the other man, ever willing to sink to his knees.  
Yes, he decides, as Frederick provocatively licks cake from his hand, maintaining eye contact as he sinks his own mouth around the mess of his own fingers. He’ll entertain himself with colouring between the lines for now.


	3. A Backfiring Sleeping Aid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frederick lies alone in a hospital bed and dreams.

The worst part about Frederick’s second stay in hospital is how attentive the nurses are to the sudden movements of a man who is supposedly the Chesapeake Ripper. Some part of his unconscious form’s aware of that. The rest of it is… distracted.  
His mind is a car crash, a wrecked mess of sounds and images and gore remembered from case files and his own past events. “ _The Minnesota Shrike kills a fourth victim, body displayed according to pattern”_  Will Graham, sullen and uncooperative in his therapy sessions _“lungs removed whilst victim was still breathing”_ Abel, sliding a scalpel across his stomach and pulling things out of him, red and wet and terrifying  _“One dead three found injured at horror crime scene”_ Hannibal Lecter covering his mouth, long fingers clamping a rag to his face.  
He seems to linger longer on this one, and it’s deja vu because this happened the other night. He knows what’s going to happen here as he slips from memory to dark imaginings, aware of his body stirring a little at his internal conflict. Hannibal didn’t touch him in real life, he tries to register as warm hands trail down him, and he couldn’t have suffocated him if there’s one large hand on his stomach, accidentally brushing his scar and making his body twitch a protest whilst the other gently, too gently slides under the waistband of the pyjama bottoms he wasn’t wearing then, not unless the man had three hands.  
The hand gripping him a little too tightly to be comfortable now is real, and frightening, because Hannibal could have come back come back to finish the job, he broke Abel out and Abel was guarded, Frederick isn’t guarded and Abel is dead  
His dream partner’s Abel for a scary moment, and that thought wakes him up enough to register that the palm pulling his own shaft a little roughly belongs to him, even though it doesn’t feel like him, the hand on his hip is his but it feels like it belongs elsewhere, some phantom ghost hand gripping and massaging outside of his body’s control.  
He allows himself to imagine it’s Hannibal after a few blank minutes, even though he doesn’t know why, and loses himself in the remembered feeling of the too-large too-strong body pressing into him from behind, immobilizing him, holding him still as a thumb roughly moves over his cock head, building in his stomach until it’s all over him-  
Frederick comes hard, crying out and jolting himself awake, startling around for Abel or Hannibal or anyone who could hurt him or fuck him why did he add that last part before sitting still, breathing heavily once he’s sure he’s safe and feeling the wet mess of his trousers slowly cooling against him.  
A nurse coughs from the corridor, loud and obvious.  
Frederick falls asleep in wet come-soaked clothes for the third time in a fortnight, red and teary and out for vengance against the man who’s ruined both his waking and sleeping hours, reverted him to some little depraved slut crying out against his own hand.  
His revenge, he assures himself darkly, will be creative and painful.


	4. A Brief Experiment Regarding The Benefits Of Delayed Gratification

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we finally find out why Frederick has that infamous cock ring.

“Frederick? Nod once if you can hear me.” Hannibal’s voice floats somewhere above his head. Frederick’s not sure whether he’s physically capable of answering honestly.  
He aches. He stopped trying to guess how many minutes had passed a good hour ago, stopped pleading with the man on top of him to move faster, take the ring off, because tonight has been labelled an ‘experiment’, and therefore he’s decided to let Hannibal have his fun. Except it stopped being fun at least twenty minutes ago. Frederick’s just nerves and sensation at this point, entire body feeling each minute clench of the hands pinning his own to the pillows, each miniscule movement of Hannibal inside of him- he should have come at least twice already but the now-warm metal around him’s stopping him, and he thinks he can vaguely remember crying the last time-  
He’s nearly there a third time, cock a frankly hideous colour when the body on top of him pulls out, leaving him empty and open with a squelch and drawing an inhuman whimper from his lips.  
“No- no please, fuck, Hannibal- Doctor Lecter please-” Frederick scans back, thinking of every single thing he could have done wrong the entire time they’ve known eachother and frantically apologising for it, it’s too much, he can’t be left in this state, Hannibal’s not that cruel-  
Unless Will Graham’s accusations are true, in which case, he lets out a huff of cracked laughter, he’s been recieving blowjobs from a cannibal for a month. What an image.  
It’s a horrible image, and processing it finally, finally seems to draw blood upwards away from his cock, a tangible relief on his part that doesn’t seem to have the same effect on the other man.  
“You had been doing so well, Frederick.” Hannibal sounds dissappointed, and something about that hurts, hurts deeply, hurts far more than the pressure he was feeling a moment ago. Hands finally move to the metal object surrounding him and adjust him in it, but there’s a detatched look on the man’s face that Frederick just can’t bear, so he forces himself to let out a weak cry and move his now-freed hands to Hannibal’s own.  
“I can- I can try a little longer?” The voice that replies is an uncertain mewl to his own ears, but Hannibal nods, seeming far more confident in Frederick’s coherency than he himself is.  
“Seventeen more minutes to make it an hour?” The statement’s a shock: to get to this state he’d have assumed it was closer to two hours than fourty three minutes. And then there’s a warm, slick hand on his oversensitive cock and he moans a yes through gritted teeth.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frederick debates the emotional consequences of an offer he can't refuse.

There’s a human hand in Hannibal’s fridge.  
A human hand on a plate in Hannibal’s fridge.  
Hannibal’s directly behind him, large broad body lightly brushing against his back.  
Frederick vomits, surprised he lives long enough to choke violently into the stainless steel sink on the room’s other side.  
  
”You should not have ventured down there, Frederick.”  
Frederick’s crying, of course he’s crying.  
He demands Hannibal tell him it’s a mistake, a vivisection project to keep his surgeon’s hands nimble.  
It might  _be_ another surgeon’s hands, the same pair that cut him apart nightly behind his eyes.  
The Chesapeake Ripper’s hands. He’s been fucking the Chesapeake Ripper.  
Hannibal doesn’t deny it, making it the first time in their entire three year history of brief encounters and sexual marathons and drunkenly clinging to the man’s  chest after reassurances the scar cutting him open made him no less beautiful, killers aren’t beautiful, murder isn’t beautiful.  
  
Hannibal is.  
  
“Marry me?”  
It’s a gag, a bribe, a threat softly threaded around by the possibility of something so frightening and wonderful that Frederick’s chest clenches, painful and breathtaking, a document both marriage license and funeral arrangement he’s invited to sign.  
Frederick Lecter’s a name both aurally and symbolically almost as foul as the contents of the fridge behind him, a murderer’s husband and co-accomplice which he is anyway, perhaps the law would protect him that way or it could make it worse, this couldn’t be any worse, he loved him, loved him so much, still loves him, if the hand is Gideon’s it’s a taunt, another slap in the face, a “fuck you Frederick, how dare you have something important” purr from beyond the grave, he doesn’t love any part of that hand-  
  
He’s going to marry Hannibal Lecter. Daren’t think of the possibilities possible if he doesn’t.  
The word doesn’t come out, it doesn’t happen.  
“Sleep on the concept, Frederick. And please do not venture into my cellar without permission again.”  
  
Curiosity killed the cat.


End file.
